


The Not-Especially-Secret Society of Time Lords Who Said ‘Fuck Rassilon’

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Humor, Post-Episode: s12e10 The Timeless Children, Secret Organizations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29044995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The problem with having a secret society is that eventually, people are going to find out about it. Which, as several rebel Time Lords are discovering, is something of a problem when the person petitioning for membership is the Doctor, who possesses a TARDIS, a stubborn streak, and the ability to be really, really annoying.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Missy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	The Not-Especially-Secret Society of Time Lords Who Said ‘Fuck Rassilon’

**Author's Note:**

> Look, don't ask how this happened. Just accept it.

“She’s written again,” the Corsair said in disbelief, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she sank down on one of the numerous sofas that lined the central hub of their makeshift home. Sofas were a distinctly human invention, Time Lords having never had much concept of ‘comfort’ or ‘relaxation’ and so one of their first orders from Space Ikea, upon securing premises for themselves, had been for a number of squashy, luridly coloured sofas, some of which had the bonus of doubling up as surprise beds. This particular sofa is hyacinth blue, and by virtue of the fact that it matches her parrot companion, the Corsair has claimed it as her own. Admittedly, the parrot may have helped; it’s quite hard to steal someone else’s seat while being relentlessly pecked and clawed at, as well as being intermittently insulted in High Gallifreyan.

“What does she want this time?” the Monk asked from across the room, where he was playing some kind of warcraft game on a holo-tablet. At least, the Corsair _hoped_ it was a game; she didn’t have the energy to ask, and she certainly didn’t have the energy to chastise him if it turned out he was playing yet another civilisation off against another from afar. Sometimes, the key to getting along with her unconventional fellow residents was to not ask questions, not get involved, and tactically not see or hear certain things, particularly after dark. “Come on, come on… _yes!_ ”

It took the Corsair a moment to realise that the second part of this utterance was aimed at the three-dimensional figures marching through midair, and she squinted at the device out of the corner of her eye. She was fairly certain that the Monk was recreating a battle from _The Lord of the Rings_ , but she resolved not to enquire; the only thing more wearisome than an argument was having human literature explained to her in minute, soul-crushingly dull detail.

“Same thing she wants every time,” the Corsair rolled her eyes, resting her boots on the arm of the sofa and skimming the letter again. She was on the verge of speaking when the Rani strode into the room, looked from her to the Monk, and then narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Let me guess,” the Rani said loftily, perching at the workbench in the corner and propping her chin on her hand. “Letter from _her_.”

“Right in one.”

“Wanting?”

“Oh, the same thing she always wants,” the Corsair let out a theatrical sigh. “Membership.”

“Does she think we’re a subscription service?” the Rani asked with a disdainful sniff. “Does she think she can buy her way in with a monthly payment? We are not… FlicksCinema, or whatever the humans insist on calling it.”

“Netflix?” the Monk suggested, and the Rani scowled at him, as though silently chastising him for bothering to learn anything so reprehensible as the name of a human corporation.

“Yes, that,” she snapped, wrinkling her nose. “Then again, perhaps we could charge her and refuse to disclose anything. Might be a viable income source… I could get…” her eyes glazed over as she evidently began to mentally shop for scientific equipment or weaponry or both. The Corsair tried to avoid making enquiries about such matters. “Oh, this could be a wonderful idea.”

“But if we start billing her, we’re going to have to tell her something,” the Corsair noted pragmatically. “And if we tell her _anything_ at all, you know what she’s like – she’s like a Judoon with a sore horn. She’s going to keep picking away at it, and then we’ll have to move again. _Do_ you want to move again?”

“Goodness, no,” the Rani said at once, her expression horrified. “I’ve got a terribly sensitive experiment in progress that can’t possibly be interrupted or relocated.”

“Well then,” the Corsair raised her eyebrows. “Thank god for our Intergalactic Post Office Box, or we’d have all sorts of weirdos turning up on the doorstep. This one, for a start,” she held up the letter. “Or worse, any of the preceding ones.”

“I liked the tenth one,” the Monk chipped in, prodding at his holographic figures with a sonic multi-tool, sending them squealing and running for cover and smirking as he did so. “He was _very_ chaotic. Liked a bit of war. All very me.”

“Are you forgetting who he became?” the Rani asked coolly. “The Time Lord Victorious? He became everything we have fought so hard not to become; everything our people cherished and valued. He committed the ultimate act of treason by betraying the vow we made to each other at the Academy. He became one of _them_.”

“You’ve got a point there,” the Monk noted, scratching the back of his neck with the sonic and letting out a yelp of shock as it activated and caused a small section of his hair to smoke. “He was nice to look at, though.”

“This one is nice to look at,” the Corsair reasoned with as much objectivity as she could manage. “But that’s not a reason to let her in.”

“I dunno,” the Monk snickered. “One of us might have a problem with that view…”

“What view?” Missy asked, striding in, and the Corsair resisted the urge to groan. There was little chance of the three of them getting their way if Missy was present in the discussion, although they did have the advantage of numbers. “What are we talking about?”

“Your dearest best enemy would like to join us,” the Rani informed her snippily, turning briefly away from the three of them to tinker with something on the workbench, before looking back at the group with an expression of great distaste. “She’s written us a lovely letter. Again.”

“Goodness,” Missy said brightly. “Well, I really don’t see the issue, chaps – and chapesses, of course, the Mistress doesn’t discriminate. Why can’t she join? She’s every bit as renegade as we are.”

“She needs therapy,” the Corsair told her bluntly. “She needs a whole lot of therapy due to… things we can’t tell you,” She and the Rani exchanged a darkly significant look, remembering in tandem the smoking ruins of Gallifrey, and the knowledge that Missy’s future self would do that, before giving the vague summary: “Trauma. Anger issues. Genocidal tendencies.”

“I don’t see why you keep banging on about that, dearies,” Missy trilled. “After all, you let me in, and I’m every part as much of a genocidal maniac as she is.”

“You aren’t traumatised.”

“I was,” Missy countered in a sharp tone, her expression hardening in an instant, and every part of her body tensed up defensively. “All of what Rassilon did… the Untempered Schism… the sound of drums in my head… do you think that was a picnic in the park, kiddies? Because I’m here to tell you, gang, it wasn’t. I spent years…”

“…despising yourself, murdering countless primitive races, enslaving them, acting out about your daddy issues, and behaving like a petulant child. Yes, we know,” the Rani rolled her eyes. “But you got over it.”

“Not with therapy,” Missy noted primly. “I got a nice new regeneration. Why can’t we give her the same thing?”

“What, you’re really keen to force her to regenerate from afar, and miss the shiny new female form of your oldest pal?”

“True,” Missy said seriously, considering the matter for several seconds. “You make a very good point. Can’t we just mind-wipe her?”

“Yes,” the Rani said eagerly, at the same time that the Corsair firmly said: “ _No_.”

“I do wish you’d tell me about the poor little love’s trauma,” Missy cooed, and the Corsair repressed the urge to shudder. “I could cuddle her calm… I could stroke her hair… I could…”

“We can’t,” the Corsair told her bluntly, as the Monk shuddered at the mental images Missy was trying so hard to impart to them all. “It’s…”

“What? A spoiler?”

“Yes,” the Corsair narrowed her eyes at the allusion to River Song. They’d played host to her last month, and she’d left the Monk so enamoured that it had taken the Rani several days to return him to any kind of sense. “A spoiler. For both of you. And mind-wiping her…”

“Would only make _us_ as bad as _them_ ,” the Monk finished, to the Corsair’s great surprise. “Not to mention the fact we don’t have a Matrix to back her up onto, so if it goes wrong we might end up having to spoon-feed her nutrient mix until we can force her to regenerate, although there’s no guarantee that that’ll fix her. Or if she’ll even be _able_ to regenerate if we scrambled her brain that badly.”

“We don’t have a Matrix… _yet_ ,” the Rani reasoned. “I could put one together in about two months.”

“We are not building a Matrix,” the Corsair said impatiently. “We are not admitting the Doctor.”

“You’re no fun,” the Rani muttered, pulling a tablet towards her and using a stylus to scrawl on it in Gallifreyan. The Corsair caught sight of the words _mini-Matrix_ and _mind-wipe_ before the Rani followed her eyeline and locked the device. “Spoilsport.”

“We’ve already let you do research on her from afar,” the Monk told her. “Remember Orphan 55?”

The Rani’s expression brightened at the mention of her latest science experiment. “That was a fun one. Her poor pets. They must be just as traumatised as she is.”

“I would suggest they start their own secret society of emotionally damaged rebels, but I’m sure that 2020 is enough to traumatise their entire backwards species _and_ cause them to act up, so it wouldn’t be a very exclusive club, would it?” the Monk said snidely.

“This wouldn’t be such an exclusive club if _someone_ hadn’t…” the Rani began, shooting Missy a filthy look, but Missy’s attention was fixed entirely on the Corsair, who was still clutching the Doctor’s letter in one hand.

“Let me read it,” Missy pleaded, her expression surprisingly gentle. “Go on. What harm could it do?”

The Corsair exchanged a look with the Rani, who shrugged, and the Monk, who did the same, and then threw the letter deftly in Missy’s direction, the unseen air eddies in the room bearing it across the space between them and into Missy’s outstretched hand.

“Blah, blah, I miss you all, blah, you are not alone, blah, old times’ sake, blah…” Missy summarised aloud as she skimmed through the letter and read choice sections aloud. “Oh, she’s invoking our time at the Academy, now? That’s just below the belt… in my case, very literally…”

The three other Time Lords present groaned, covering their ears.

“Not _again_ ,” the Rani implored her loudly. “Please, please, do not subject us to that _again_.”

“Why?” Missy asked with an innocent expression. “ _She’s_ the one who brought it up.”

“We’re adding to the list,” the Rani decided. “She’s not allowed to join until she has therapy, and if – and only _if_ – she agrees to that, and we let her in, you two are only allowed to… do whatever uncivilised things you do together in the privacy of your own TARDISes.”

“Deal.”

* * *

_Dear Doctor_

_Thank you for your letter applying to join The Secret Society of Gallifreyan Renegades. Per our previous five letters, we would like to re-emphasise that the conditions for your membership would be your commitment to a period of therapeutic intervention to assist with your mental health, process your trauma, and move forwards from the incident on Gallifrey with a refreshed, positive outlook that would not induce moments of rage, depression, or self-loathing. Any such therapy would also need to address your anger issues, generalised loathing of entire races, and identity issues._

_Until such time that we have firm evidence stating you are engaging, will engage, or have engaged in the aforementioned therapy, we will continue to decline your applications for the safety and wellbeing of our existing members. We have attached a list of therapy planets you may wish to consider, or we can provide you with a TraumaReliefBot3001, which has been specially programmed to help you to address your identity crisis and the destruction of our home planet (which we would be happy to discuss with you should you meet our terms). Until such time, we wish you and your companions all of the best with your future endeavours, and we continue to think of you with fondness and exasperation in equal measure._

_Kind regards_

_The Secret Society of Gallifreyan Renegades_

The Doctor scowled down at the letter, thought about crumpling it up, then laid it down on the console instead, balling her hands into fists and resting them on either side of the controls.

“Another no?” Yaz asked sympathetically, and the Doctor nodded. “Why?”

“They want me to have therapy.”

“And like I said last time,” Yaz noted, raising her eyebrows as she spoke. “Would that be such a bad thing? Talking to someone?”

“When did you last talk to someone?” the Doctor asked levelly, meeting Yaz’s gaze and watching her companion flush. “I’ll have therapy if you have therapy.”

“Alright, alright,” Yaz muttered. “Point taken. Stop sulking, then.”

“I’ll sulk if I want to.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Yaz said fondly. “Push the button, yeah?”


End file.
